


Love and Moderation

by Panny



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Caretaking, Everybody Lives, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague (past and background relationship), M/M, Near Death Experiences, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24058489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/pseuds/Panny
Summary: In a moment of desperation, Romeo makes a choice and fate diverges from its charted course. When Mercutio survives a near fatal wound after Romeo makes a hasty confession, Romeo must examine the true nature of his own feelings and with whom they lie.
Relationships: Benvolio Montague & Romeo Montague, Mercutio/Romeo Montague
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23
Collections: Hurt Comfort Exchange 2020





	Love and Moderation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alley_Skywalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alley_Skywalker/gifts).



When Romeo steps into the fray, he reaches first for Mercutio. It’s an instinctive, unthinking move, born out of the simple trust that Mercutio would never hurt him, would have to stop rather than do so. He thinks he might regret it for the rest of his life.

Tybalt’s blade strikes low, jabbing cleanly under his arm and then Mercutio is a heavy weight against him. Benvolio is at their sides in an instant, ignoring Tybalt’s hasty escape, face as bloodlessly pale as if he’d been the one run through. Mercutio talks. He talks and talks and talks, voice speeding dizzyingly past them all when Romeo is still trying desperately to wrap his mind around what has happened.

“I thought all for the best,” Romeo says, pleads. Mercutio breathes harshly from where his face has fallen against Romeo’s breastbone and Romeo can’t be sure if it’s an attempt at a laugh or a sigh of anger.

“Help me into some house, Benvolio, or I shall faint.”

Benvolio moves to do just that, but Romeo finds that he can’t bring himself to let go, letting Mercutio’s weight bear them both to the ground. Instead of protesting, Mercutio’s hands seize upon Romeo with equal intensity as he resumes talk and talk and talk, laying generous blame on Romeo and Tybalt both. Mercutio jokes and curses and jeers in Romeo’s face with such vigour that Romeo is sure for a moment that his first perception was mistaken. He is sure for a moment that Mercutio is fine and that he will brush this off like he had many a childhood scrape and he will unapologetically hold this incident over Romeo’s head when he tries to turn down an invitation at some later date.

But then Romeo has to catch his head as Mercutio’s hands slip from his doublet, cushioning his skull before it can strike the unforgiving ground. Mercutio’s eyes rove about, glassy with a foreign dullness that doesn’t belong in them. He can feel now the shallow movement of Mercutio’s panting, as if all his talk has exhausted the breath within him.

“The doctor he sent for?” Romeo turns to Benvolio, desperation rendering his voice unduly harsh. Benvolio doesn’t flinch from it, focused instead on his hands held tight to Mercutio’s wounded side, as if he could keep the life in his body through will alone. He shakes his head, lips pressed in a tight, grim line.

“I fear it will take too long, even if they should run the whole way.”

The anticipation of grief rises like a storm inside him, wills him to follow through on some impulsive act. Falling on his own sword or sticking Tybalt with it, maybe. Except neither of those options would save Mercutio and both would hurt Juliet. He can’t bear the thought of being the source of pain for two people he loves so dearly.

Romeo tangles his fingers gently in Mercutio’s hair and wishes that he was loved less well. It is for love that Mercutio bleeds now. For his temper, yes, and for his stubbornness, but for his love of Romeo beneath all that. Love beyond what Romeo has sought or asked for, but love that he has returned, if not in kind. It feels vain to hold himself so high in Mercutio’s esteem but worse to deny it when the proof is so clearly laid out in front of him. Mercutio is dying for him, for his honour. Would that he could compel Mercutio to live for him as readily.

He marks the red of Mercutio’s lips and doesn’t let himself think about the reason why they’re painted such a vibrant colour, wordlessly pressing his own against them. He tastes copper and salt and feels Mercutio’s breath stutter beneath him, surprised and wounded like Romeo is stabbing him anew, finishing what Tybalt started. Maybe he is, he doesn’t know anymore. “I love you,” he says, voice shaking over the words. He stares into Mercutio’s eyes as they return to focus on him, holding their attention with the force of his own fervour. “You fought him for me. So, I beg of you, fight for me again now.”

“Do not say it if you do not mean it.” Temper flares hot in Mercutio’s face, words flecked in blood and spittle as they all but snarl from his lips. The anger briefly lights up his eyes, fills out the hollowness of his expression, like for just a moment Mercutio has forgotten his own pain. Romeo is chokingly grateful for it. “Do not _dare_.”

“I do mean it.” He thinks he could mean anything, promise anything if it would only undo this. He moves his free to hand to cup Mercutio’s face and the furious expression flies from it as if Romeo had slapped him instead. “Please, Mercutio, I do mean it.”

There is a shout from down the street, Mercutio’s page returning with accompaniment. Wild hope surges in Benvolio’s face as he turns to call them, hands still steady where they lay. Mercutio’s eyelashes flutter frantically at the tip of Romeo’s thumb as he clings to the last lingering remnants of consciousness. Romeo bows his head and weeps.

Mercutio doesn’t so much as flinch at the wet cloth lain over forehead, not even as Romeo has to clumsily use his sleeve to dab at the water that trails toward his eyes. Romeo selfishly thinks he’d feel less concerned if Mercutio slept more fitfully. Instead he is loose and lax and pliant—too many words that are too out of place for Mercutio. All of his thrumming, unrestrainable energy has been left to cool on Verona’s streets. Romeo finds himself having to periodically touch his chest—neck—lips to reassure himself that he is still alive.

The cloth is already fever-warmed when he reaches to smooth it again. He frowns when the water he returns it to feels nearly as tepid; he and Benvolio will soon have to change it again. Every hour at Mercutio’s bedside seems to stretch for aeons while they wait for him to wake and yet it feels like too few moments have passed since they were last forced to leave him. They both know that they could entrust the vigil to some other more versed in the labour, but neither of them voice the suggestion. Not even as the pressure of his neglected obligations weighs on Romeo’s shoulders.

If any in Verona yet hold love for Tybalt, he’ll be convinced to flee the city before the day’s end. Juliet must be heartbroken. She must wonder where Romeo is and why he has missed their meeting and why he has not gone to her to comfort her in her pain. A part of him almost hopes that she does not forgive him for it—it would be no less than deserved.

But if Mercutio were to pass alone while Romeo enjoyed his wedding bed, he would be even less able to face forgiveness for that.

“Did you mean it?” Benvolio’s voice and face are equally free of judgement. He has played secret keeper to confessions that Romeo has not shared even with the good Friar. Romeo has no doubt that he’ll bear any honesty he foists on him now. Even so, his tongue lies dry and stiff in his mouth. For all the words that he has spoken on the matter of love, he finds the necessary vocabulary is lost to him now.

“I do love him,” he says at last. His hand moves to Mercutio’s chest again, feeling the rise of his breath and the beat of his heart. Of course he loves him, always has. He’s his dearest friend. He can’t imagine what his life would be without him and it rattles him still to have come so close to finding out.

“As do I. As does the prince given how he’s set to pursue Tybalt. Very lovable, is our Mercutio,” Benvolio says, words bathed in fond sarcasm. “But would you moon over him as you do the fair Rosaline? Do you lament his absent moments with sonnets composed of your sighs?”

“I doubt he should thank me if I did. Nothing puts Mercutio in a mood so foul as when I spend too long indulging one of mine.” Benvolio’s laugh is bright and clear and untouched by strain; the sound of it swells somewhere under Romeo’s breast. He loves Benvolio too, in this moment and in the many that lie before. It gives him the strength to admit a part of the truth to them both. “I did not want the last words between us to be in anger. Yet I would not have them be a lie either.”

Benvolio sighs and doesn’t put words to the worry that pinches his brows. “Then let’s make sure they’re not the last. Come, Romeo, help me with this bucket. We’ll manage to cool this hothead yet.”

Romeo expects a summons from his parents that never comes. Maybe they have no one to send for him, his two most frequent confidants being equally as absent. Maybe they understand well enough to leave him to his melancholy this time.

Mercutio reaches fleeting moments of waking that don’t quite translate into true awareness. He has barely enough presence of mind to sup from a spoon when Romeo holds it to his lips. Each time, he is just as quickly he is dragged back to sleep and Romeo clings to the hope that this grim routine must be better than not waking at all. That at least he must be growing stronger, surely.

Romeo finds himself more and more frequently needing to check for indications of Mercutio’s improving health, despite not having the wisdom to interpret them. Even now, when he should be pursuing precious hours of sleep, he finds himself knelt at the edge of the bed, running the backs of his knuckles over fever-flushed cheeks and wanting to believe that they’re cooler than when he last touched them. Mercutio’s hair is slick with sweat and it’s habit now to push it gently back from his forehead. He lets his fingers continue to slide through the strands just a little longer than necessary and some of the damp locks hold in strange positions when he finally stops.

He has vague memories of sickly occasions when he was young where his nursemaid would heft him into her arms, caressing his face with cool hands before pressing a lingering kiss to brow—the better to check his temperature, she’d claimed. Maybe it’s the strange aura of vulnerability that Mercutio’s illness gives him, but Romeo finds himself bending down until his lips can brush along the heat of Mercutio’s forehead. It doesn’t feel like he learns anything new; there are no grand revelations to accompany the gesture. Still, he finds himself persisting a few moments longer, comforted by the continued sound of Benvolio’s soft snores at the other end of the room.

“I’m not sorry for what I've done. I would have fallen on bended knee if it would only have kept you at my side a moment more,” he says, voice whisper light. A secret confessed to the moonlight and the unburdened smoothness of Mercutio's brow. “Now I fear the truth will give you cause to finally have done with me. If so, I’ll not blame you nor try to sway you from it.

“But ‘til then, permit me enough selfishness to remain beside you. Just a little longer.”

The scullery maids have come to expect his visits at odd times. Some of the older ones he remembers from younger days when he, Mercutio, and Benvolio used to sneak about in the hopes of finding snacks. There is no need for subterfuge in the present and porridge has been set aside for him without asking. He takes one bowl outside into the fresh air and sits overlooking the street. He eats his portion in even, methodic bites, without enjoyment. He watches the shadows shift as the clouds pass and wonders if it’s yet been long enough that he can return without Benvolio scolding him. He understands the logic in these forced breaks, is dutiful in reminding Benvolio to take them himself. But they are unhappy, restless interludes. Every step past the threshold is a reminder of how his heart has betrayed itself and that he is the only one who has the power to walk away from the consequence. Mercutio, Benvolio, Juliet, even Friar Laurence, discrete friend that he has been—Romeo has robbed them all of that choice.

The knowledge weighs heavy on his shoulders as he closes the door against the brightness of the sun. He stops in the kitchens again, retrieving two more portions. A generous one for Benvolio. A more modest one for Mercutio in the optimistic hope that he might be up to it today. The incline of the stairs seems to grow steeper by the day, but he hurries up them regardless, heart pounding double time from more than mere exertion.

When at last he reaches the door to Mercutio’s sickroom, he nearly drops the bowls.

“I’ll not drop dead should you cease fussing, Benvolio.” Mercutio sits upright, eyes still fevered but alight with something much more vital, stubbornly evading Benvolio’s attempts to get him to lie back down. Romeo’s heart trips on its own momentum and he strains to hear Mercutio’s voice through the buzzing in his ears; he hadn’t realized quite how much he’d missed it until now. “But Romeo appears as if he might. Pray catch him quickly now—swooning should be done at my bedside, if it’s to be done at all.”

“If you do not want him, then pay him the courtesy that many a good lady has given you—tell him straightaway.” The words are cruelly spoken but kindly meant. Benvolio doesn’t have an ill-natured bone in his body; he teases to gentle the truth. It’s good advice. Fair advice. Yet Romeo dreads to heed it.

It’s not right of him to avoid the matter, he realizes that much. It had seemed like a fair enough trade when he’d spoken the words and he doesn’t regret the decision even now—not precisely. Besides, it would be unworthy of him to renege on a deal made with the heavens now, lest he spit in the face of fate’s unexpected compassion. And there are other things that he cannot hope to ignore indefinitely. It would be the right thing to say something at the soonest so that all of them can move to find their happiness and he can return to beloved arms. At the worst, his life after might be Mercutio-less, but it will be content and full and good _enough_.

Even knowing his hesitation to be unjustifiable does not curb its persistence.

Mercutio still sleeps most of the day, but he’s aware enough to greet the constant fretting with an ill-tempered lack of grace. He chafes under their attentions and insists on kicking them out at a remarkably respectable hour. The workers in the kitchen have all been given clear instructions to chase Romeo away on sight; Mercutio will not have him waiting on him anymore. Romeo near balks at being so casually dismissed after Mercutio’s bedside had formed the center of his world for such a long period. But in the face of Mercutio’s mulish looks and Benvolio’s easy acceptance, he has no choice but to acquiesce.

Romeo spends more time at home than he’s had cause to do in recent memory. His parents are patient and understanding and unsubtly delighted by the constant availability of his presence. He finds it hard to begrudge them this, though his misery is only made more bitter by his inability to explain the depth and source of it.

Were he in such a mood any other time, it would be Benvolio and Mercutio who would seek him out to find the cause. He wonders if that is part of the problem—he’s so used to having Mercutio chase him, pry conversation from him. Is he really so incapable of managing the other way around? It hadn’t always been this way, surely. There had been a time when they were young and their friendship had filled the entirety of their days. He sorely regrets that nostalgia is so late in coming.

These thoughts dog his heels and chase him to his next visit to see Mercutio. He will tell him this time, he resolves. For his own benefit as much as Mercutio’s. He will grieve their bond if the truth breaks it, but he will not have this thing between them anymore.

The scowl Mercutio greets him with is particularly stormy and Romeo frets for a moment that he has somehow been found out before he’s had the opportunity to say anything. It is a worse possibility that he has not given enough consideration and his stomach lurches with the force of his apprehension. But Mercutio says nothing, merely watches him enter with simmering intent. Romeo knows Mercutio’s temper well; he has not often been the target in their long history together, though he has sometimes been the cause. Standing patiently by the side of the bed feels like a great act of courage.

“I’m given to understand,” Mercutio says, voice pitched low and even, “that Tybalt has fled Verona.”

It’s not the opening that Romeo expects, though perhaps he should have. His mouth runs dry as he considers the new conversational pitfall that has opened between them. “That…would be a fair assumption. The prince called for his execution.”

“Ah, that does match what I’ve heard. At least someone cared enough to take up my cause.”

Romeo flinches, the words striking him like a body blow. “I—what do you mean by that, Mercutio?”

“I believe that’s my line, Romeo. I know well your skill with a sword, yet you refused to fight. He struck me down with an unsportsmanlike blow and you did not give chase. In all the time since, none but my kinsman has given care to demand satisfaction from my assailant. What meaning am I to find in that?”

“You were injured. Mercutio, I’m not sure you realize”—Romeo swallows against the memory of Mercutio’s pain-glazed eyes and laboured breaths. “You were injured,” he says again, helplessly.

“Oh, yes. He did me a most dishonourable injury and cut far deeper than flesh can mend.” Mercutio’s flush, hectic spots of crimson blotching his skin in an eerie mirror of the illness that had held him. “My friends let a rogue steal my honour and now I’ve been left with no way to ever reclaim it.” Something like hurt edges out the anger in his eyes, but even as Romeo watches, he shoves it away, a desperate viciousness curling his lip. “Why did you not avenge me?”

“So that I should have no cause to seek vengeance.” The words are louder than he means them to be, exploding from somewhere deep within his chest. Their release is like a torrent breaking through a dam and he cannot stop himself from continuing. “I could not bear to leave your side to give chase—not if I might return to find you gone. If the cost was your honour, then I will make what amends I can to restore it. But I would not trade your life for any honour.” Romeo pauses, strangely out of breath. There is a pricking at the backs of his eyes and he has to forcibly swallow down his own misplaced frustration. “Not yours or mine,” he says at last, needing Mercutio to understand it clearly and above all else.

Abnormally wordless, expression shuttered away, Mercutio stretches out a hand and Romeo seizes it with grateful immediacy. _Just a little longer_ , he thinks, twining their fingers together and saying nothing more.

Mercutio no longer shirks his company and Romeo takes it for the olive branch that it is, doubling down on efforts and hours. He would not bear it if the new cracks in their relationship were to grow when there is yet more he can do to hold them together.

Mercutio’s sudden shift in mood sharpens Benvolio’s and this time Romeo doesn’t have to wonder what he’s done to earn such ire.

Benvolio doesn’t bandy his anger about like Mercutio. It’s a mutinous purse in his lips, the barely present pauses before he answers Romeo in conversation. So, Romeo knows he’s pushed much too far when Benvolio actually stops him in the hallway to hiss: “Either speak to him of it or I shall do so far less kindly.”

“How much do you remember of that day?”

“More than none but less than you, I’m sure,” Mercutio says. He seems to find the sight of his own hands resting in his lap suddenly captivating. Romeo kneels at his bedside, a deliberate move of preparatory supplication. “I did not have your vantage point to appreciate the matter.”

He means to clarify, to broach the subject of his hasty confession outright. Instead he says: “Why will you not look at me?”

“Perhaps I’ve seen my fill of you.” Mercutio’s laugh is a breathy sound, expressed without humour. “You’ll find no shortage of looks cast upon you should you want them, Romeo. What would you have of me that has you demanding mine?”

“A straight answer,” Romeo says instantly and then his face burns with his own hypocrisy. He swallows and consciously chooses not to take back the words now that they’ve been spoken. “I know it’s not my right to ask for it, but I would have it all the same.”

“Ah, perhaps my memory is not as strong as I’d thought. You’ll have to tell me which question I’m to answer, Romeo.”

“Mercutio.” Romeo lays a hand over one of Mercutio’s clenched fists. When that gains him no response, he bows his head until it presses against the mattress. “Please.”

There’s the sound of a sigh and he feels the bed shake. And then a hand, gently brushing through his hair. “I dare not catch your looks lest you find me wanting.”

Romeo starts at that, head whipping up to finally, finally catch full view of Mercutio’s face. His expression is nigh unreadable, but Romeo can interpret the double meaning in the words well enough. Like a coward, he chooses the simpler one to answer. “Never. Your worth is beyond any measure.”

“And no less do I want,” Mercutio says and smiles an odd, sardonic smile. It’s sweet and sharp at the same time and Romeo immediately decides that he doesn’t like it on Mercutio’s face. “I can’t keep time, but I would still know your measure if Romeo were in want of accompany.”

Romeo licks his lips almost for need of something to do. He opens his mouth. Pauses, carefully chosen words smothered by the weight of the silence. And then other words, unthought of words, tumble forth like they’d been waiting behind his teeth. “Then take my measure if you would know it.”

Mercutio seizes the fabric of his tunic and, with surprising strength, drags him into a kiss. Mercutio is as brash and reckless in this as he is in all things; he kisses like a provocation. He kisses like a man with something to prove. Romeo doesn’t think much beyond—or, no, maybe it’s better to say he doesn’t think. His response is near automatic, slowing the movement of Mercutio’s lips with his own. _Gentle, Mercutio. Gentle._ Mercutio’s surrender is gradual and pointed as he gives control over to Romeo. There is no doubt that he is able to set the pace only by Mercutio’s allowance, just as there is no doubt that it had been Romeo’s choice that the kiss continue.

Romeo has moved to lean over the bed at some point, crowding Mercutio against the pillows. When he stops to look, Mercutio glares up at him, some challenge glinting in his eyes. Romeo can’t fathom what it is that Mercutio expects him to do. So, he does the first thing that comes to mind and kisses him again.

“I never lied to him,” Romeo confesses to Benvolio when next they have a moment alone.

“Only to yourself?” Benvolio’s expression immediately softens and he raises his hands as if to push the words away. “I’m sorry, I’d take that back if I could. I would not ask more than one cruel question of you today.”

“You have another, then?”

Benvolio crosses his arms, leaning back against the wall. “Romeo, you are my friend and I would not see you hurt for all the world,” he says, picking over the words with careful consideration even as he speaks them. “But you love easily and often and, sometimes, rashly. Mercutio—he’s not the same in that regard.”

“I never thought to see the day that you’d suggest I’m more prone to rashness than Mercutio in any regard.” The joke is painfully unfunny to his ear, but Benvolio smiles anyway.

“You two are more similar than I think either of you would acknowledge, in many respects. Neither of you has much patience for restraint or moderation, for example.”

“Nor patience in general. Please, Benvolio, do not prolong my misery. If there is something you would know, then I would have you ask it.”

“Are you…certain?” Benvolio’s eyes rake over his face searchingly. Romeo bears his regard with dignity and hopes that he will find whatever it is he looks for.

“Does love require certainty?” It’s a strange thought to voice, but given how often he’s felt certain in love, it also feels like a true one. Juliet, wise beyond her years, had once asked him to swear not to his love for her. It’s a terrible betrayal to only heed her warning now, but he is determined to find a way to do better with his mistakes now so apparent. “I am happy in his affection and with all my heart I wish the same for him. Can that not be enough?”

“I think you would be better qualified to speak on that matter than I.”

“I’m not so sure I am.”

“Then he really has made a new man of you.” Benvolio’s smile broadens with genuine warmth. “If the both of you are satisfied, then let me not trouble you with doubt. I wish you all happiness, truly.”

“And I truly hope for the same.”

Mercutio is well enough to walk the city without need for direct supervision, though he still tires quickly. Romeo is his constant companion on his outings, necessary or not, and Mercutio does not try to dissuade him from it. On some days, they walk amiably side by side and take their time revisiting old haunts with a newfound romanticism. At times, Romeo will get carried away and Mercutio will let him press him discretely into some wall, grinning with smug pleasure.

On days like today, Mercutio is near vibrating with frustrated energy and his pace keeps advancing until he is clear steps ahead of Romeo, almost spitefully. Or maybe he just does it so that Romeo will reach out and grab his hand to tug him insistently closer each time the distance becomes too much.

It is during one such moment, Romeo’s hand encircling Mercutio’s wrist and dragging him back into step, that Romeo catches sight of a familiar figure moving toward them with purpose. It is easy then to force Mercutio to a full halt while he waits to learn the weight of his failed obligations, allowing time for Juliet’s nurse to close the distance. Mercutio follows his gaze and scowls with recognition, yanking his arm away with true hostility this time. Romeo hasn’t yet found the phrasing to give him all the details, but Mercutio is clever enough to pick up on the broad picture of Romeo’s goings-on.

They will likely have an argument later. It’s a tiring thought but not as difficult a one as he might have once imagined. The idea of finding strife in love used to fill him with such dread, every obstacle rapidly growing into an insurmountable hurdle. But this will not be his first fight with Mercutio, who has been such a presence in his life that he can’t imagine anything so petty not being resolved. Likely Romeo will apologize or they both will depending on what words Mercutio lets fly later. But it will be a small thing, ultimately, and they will likely not remember it in the years to come.

The wrath of Juliet’s servant, however, is a much more immediate threat. Romeo braces himself under the force of her gaze, but he doesn’t flinch from it. She stares at him for a moment, face reddening, breath half-stuttering on angry unformed words. And then she lifts her shaking hands and Romeo sees the letter.

“From my lady,” she says with venom. She thrusts the letter at his face as if she would rather use it to slit his throat. “If you remember her, sir.”

Romeo feels an uncomfortable flush creep across his own face, but he opens the letter with no more hesitation. When he reads it, the contents knock the breath from his lungs. Oh, but he has made a worse mess than he had thought.

“I have a message to return to your lady,” he tells the nurse, folding the letter away. His mind is a panicked whirlwind and he can only think of one hope to mend this. “Pray listen well and carefully.”

Friar Laurence listens to their plight with stern sympathy, not interrupting even once. Juliet, small and red-eyed, holds herself together with surprising fortitude as she explains the fine details. The trap Romeo has left her in. Marriage again or disownment, sprung on her while she has wondered at the absence of her husband who is not a husband. She does not linger on the blame she could lay at his feet, though Romeo expects to hear it. She does not entreat him say ‘love’ to her or ask for other comforts. She does not flee from the arm he places across her shoulders as she speaks but neither does she lean in for an embrace. She has come for help with her circumstances only and Romeo is surely the worst for finding consolation in that.

He adores her, maybe a part of him always will. But it no longer holds the heat of new infatuation. He wonders if it’s his fault, if his heart is so selfish and fickle that it can only hold one thing, needing to consume that one thing entirely. If by making room for Mercutio, he has displaced Juliet in his affections. Or maybe it would have always been this way, given time, and he would have made them both as miserable in marriage as they had ever been apart.

Friar Laurence stands and paces for a brief time after Juliet has finished speaking. At last he turns to them and asks: “Did you consummate?” It’s a practical question and Romeo knows why he asks it. If he had not, he likely would have broached the matter of annulment himself. It seems only fair to free he and Juliet both of their ties to the other while they have the chance, but Juliet's stricken face and the oppressive presence of her waiting betrothal taint any relief in the moment.

“No, but”—Juliet’s words cut off as she finally gives in to weeping, freeing herself of Romeo’s arm as she hunches over her knees. At once Romeo wishes she had lied and is glad that she has not. What is salvation for Romeo forms the chains that bind Juliet to her impossible situation. It feels horrific to have what might have lain between them reduced down to one missed moment, even more so for all that Romeo has learned about love in the time since.

“Hush now,” Laurence says and sinks to his knees in front of her with only a small wince. He takes her hands in his and she quickly grasps back, accepting the comfort from him that Romeo could not offer. “The blame belongs as much to me as anyone. I acted against my better judgement before and I will do all I can to make amends now.”

As Juliet calms herself, Laurence turns to Romeo, offering an expression of great weariness rather than the expected judgement. “I believe I can offer Juliet an alternative to her present situation,” he says, “but understand that you may never see her again.”

Romeo is barely able to nod through his own stunned silence. It’s over, all of it. Just like that.

The years fail to teach either Romeo or Mercutio to love moderately. Romeo at least hopes that he’s learned to love well.

They lie together in the open chill of the night and Romeo delights in how Mercutio shivers and presses closer against him. In reward, he kisses the bridge of Mercutio’s nose and the protrusion of his cheekbone and the line of his jaw. He studiously avoids the pout of his lips, knowing that his self-denial will make that eventual meeting all the sweeter. He makes oaths without words and Mercutio takes them all, consuming anything Romeo will give him with insatiable hunger.

Mercutio eventually grows tired of his game and moves one hand to firmly force Romeo’s face where he wants it, kissing him deeply. Romeo gives in gladly, shifting slightly forward, wanting to urge Mercutio to take and take and take. Mercutio laughs fondly at his eagerness, breath fanning warmly in the renewed space between their lips. “I have loved you long but not enough,” Mercutio says, eyes twinkling. His hand gentles on Romeo’s face and becomes a caress that inspires shivers to run rampant over Romeo’s spine. “Not nearly enough.”

“Then have me as you will until you’re satisfied.”

“Would that I could imagine such a thing.” Mercutio pecks at his lips once briefly. When he retreats, his expression grows strangely serious. “I would not have satisfaction from you, Romeo. Nor would I offer it if you asked. It’s a thing that loses its value once you have it.”

“Would you leave me unhappy, then?” Romeo means the words as a tease. Unhappiness is so far out of reach he can’t imagine it intruding on them now.

“Never. Not for all the world.” Mercutio’s eyes blaze under where their foreheads have come to touch. “Be happy, yes. Be merry and glad and content. But never be satisfied.”

Romeo laughs, not because he finds it funny, but because the sound of it makes Mercutio’s expression ease. “I suppose I should demand more of you, then.” He finds a way to pull Mercutio closer still and makes good on his words.

The stars shine above them and for once they feel like possibilities.

**Author's Note:**

> I was _enamoured_ with the prompt for Romeo "fake" confessing to Mercutio to motivate him to live and them both having to just...deal with that when he does survive. What a perfect scenario for them. It cut right to the heart of what I've desperately wanted since I first fell in love with the play and every time I've revisited it since. I couldn't not oblige.
> 
> The happiest ending I could think of for the R/J side of things was to give them an out for their marriage so that they would both be free to pursue happiness elsewhere and to get Juliet as far away from her canon circumstances as possible. Let her get spirited away somewhere and just not have to deal with boys or her family or worry about any of it for a while. Romeo is hard on himself over his part in things, but given enough time he gets to move on from it and just enjoy what he has with Mercutio without the guilt. Hopefully it works!
> 
> I hope you had a wonderful Hurt/Comfort Ex, recip! Thank you for the truly inspiring prompt!


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